Crimes and Memories
by kotane
Summary: Sherlock and John got a new case, but there is a French detective following them around. She looks familiar, will Sherlock be able to find out her identity? My first fanfic ever, please be nice to me. No obvious romance (not exactly my street), still rated for angst and violence in later chapters and because I'm paranoid.
1. Chapter 1 - Boredom Again

_**Disclaimer: **__Sherlock characters belong to their rightful owners._

_**A little warning**__: First of all, English isn't my native language, so I'm truly sorry if my style is horrible or there is bunch of errors. I didn't get how the beta-reading works on this site, so if anyone is kind enough to beta next chapters, you'll be my idol forever =)_

_Please do not hesitate to review!_

_Enjoy._

Chapter 1. Boredom again

It was a boring day in 221b Baker Street. Ever since Dr Watson managed to hide ammunition and prevent his flat mate from ruining the wall, Sherlock would become really turbulent very quickly. As for now, he was franticly searching for cigarettes all over the living-room. From time to time John would take a look at him, but would not move from the old and comfortable chair. At last, when a pack of documents was sent flying on the floor, he couldn't bear it anymore:

"Can't you just calm down?"

Sherlock, dressed as usual in his blue silk gown, turned towards him with a pouting expression on his face. His eyes were filled with malicious sparks.

"I'm bored, John. Where are they?"

"No, not this time" John replied carefully.

Sherlock groaned and returned to messing up the recently cleaned room.

Apparently resigned, John took out his phone. _It can't be solved without help_, he thought.

"Lestrade" a tired voice responded on the other end of the line.

"Oh, hello Greg, how are you?"

"John? Something happened?"

"No, not yet, but it'd be nice if you could hand over something to us…"

DI Lestrade chuckled. He knew as well as Dr Watson how unbearable the One and Only Consulting Detective can get out of boredom.

"I'm about to head out to the crime scene; a little help wouldn't be a bother. A luxury hotel near Hyde Park"

"Fine, thanks, we'll be there" said John and hung up.

"Be where?" Sherlock asked, suddenly standing right beside the chair and looking down at his flat mate.

"You were bored, weren't you?"

"I warned you, I'm not taking ordinary cases"

"Well, I'll go and see how extraordinary it can get, and you'll stay put in here…"

The trick worked. Sometimes Sherlock Holmes was surprisingly childish and stubborn.

Half an hour later, they were both in a cab heading towards Hyde Park.


	2. Chapter 2 - Rita Sorrel

_**Disclaimer: **__Sherlock characters belong to their rightful owners._

_**A little warning**__: First of all, English isn't my native language, so I'm truly sorry if my style is horrible or there is bunch of errors. I didn't get how the beta-reading works on this site, so if anyone is kind enough to beta next chapters, you'll be my idol forever =)_

_Please do not hesitate to review!_

_Enjoy._

Chapter 2. Rita Sorrel

DI Lestrade was deeply concerned. He was in charge of dealing with this suspicious death of a wealthy French businessman in a prestigious hotel. Not so much to be happy about. Plus, his higher-ups forced him to work with a French colleague, a supposedly genius inspector from Paris. Of course, a high level of discretion on this case was required by the Board of the palace.

He was yawning while listening to the first report from Sally Donovan, when a cab stopped right behind the police line and two people popped out of it. Sergeant Donovan noticed them too, and It was clearly displeasing her.

"You called this freak again?" She asked.

It was probably a rhetorical question, and Lestrade didn't bother to answer. He patiently waited for the Consulting Detective and his loyal assistant to arrive, and for Sally to reluctantly return to her duties.

"It'd better be interesting" stated Sherlock instead of greetings. John simply nodded, since he already spoke to Lestrade on the phone. Slightly upset, Detective Inspector quickly summarized the situation:

"Robert Mercier, 51, French, was found dead by the maid this morning. He arrived in London by plane yesterday, 6pm, and checked in at 7. Never seen alive after that."

"Dull…" sighed Holmes, but decided to stay a little longer after taking note of John's glare.

"Hum. It could have been a suicide, but the scene was clearly rearranged after his death..."

"We all know it is not a suicide" spoke a lovely female voice to their left.

They all turned to see the brave one who interrupted a Scotland Yard representative. This person revealed herself to be a young woman, neatly and formally dressed, pale, grey-eyed, with a deep reddish brown short braid resting on her neck.

"I thought you were at the station" Lestrade noticed, surprised.

"It was so boring… I grabbed a cab" she answered, gazing at the hotel building.

"Oh, well, whatever… This is Mademoiselle Sorrel, a colleague from Paris" Lestrade explained to John, while Sherlock was quickly analyzing the new-comer. _She was obviously wearing French clothes, not expensive but good quality. Caring about appearance? But her nails were not manicured and her hair was untidy, unthinkable for a true fashion-freak. So more probably just blending in her co-workers trend. Her hair-color wasn't natural, he managed to detect some black roots in this twilight. From afar she looked like a tourist examining an interesting architectural pattern, but her eyes were sharp and alert. Somehow she was like a cat, ready to attack while pretending to sleep._ Sherlock frowned. He couldn't get any more personal data from Miss Sorrel. It happened to him only once until now, more than a year ago, and it was hard to forget about that Woman. Remembering their first meeting made him feel uneasy. Meanwhile, Lestrade ended introductions: "She worked on the case for a long time."

"It was just a death-threat though, not a murder" she specified, still not looking properly at them. "But it's getting vaguely interesting."

"Tell me about these threats?"

She finally turned her eyes from the building and stared at Sherlock with a strange look of disbelief and of interest.

"I like your voice" she noticed out loud and continued right on as if nothing happened. "Robert Mercier received some mails from an unknown crazy guy, he panicked, went to the police station and then left to Britain just so he could get killed and I could be scolded by my boss."

She had a quiet, melodic voice, almost spell-binding. Her facial expression seemed distant, although she used some childish notes at the end. All three of them stayed still for a moment, mesmerized by the sound of her slight yet charming accent.

"You look familiar, have we met before?" Sherlock asked all of a sudden.

"I don't think so. Should we go and see this crime scene, Detective Inspector?"

"Sure, let's go…"


	3. Chapter 3 - The Deadman

_**Disclaimer: **__Sherlock characters belong to their rightful owners._

_Well, there's finally something interesting happening!_

_Please review and tell me if anything's wrong._

_Thanks for reading =)_

Chapter 3. The dead man

They entered the crowded hall. People have a strange interest in death – wherever is blood, there are gossipers. Sorrel looked annoyed.

"What an awfully big place…"

"It might be awfully expensive, I guess"

John attempted to keep the conversation going. He had obviously fallen head over hills for this woman. Sherlock noticed it right away and smirked. Despite his good looks and kindness, doctor wasn't really lucky in love. In fact, Sorrel was lost in her own thoughts and didn't even hear John's remark.

Lestrade lead the group to the elevator, then pressed the 4th floor button.

"All residents were moved from that floor, only our teams are working up there" he said while the lift cage was slowly moving and a pleasant music flowed from invisible loud-speakers.

Doors silently opened on the luxurious corridor. Steps got drowned in the bright red carpet. Forensics team was gathering evidence a bit further away in the hallway. DI Lestrade and Mlle Sorrel leaded the group to the crime scene. Apparently hesitating, the young woman asked Gregg:

"By the way, Detective, who are those guys?.."

He didn't get who she was talking about and she pointed Holmes and Watson who were following behind.

"Oh, that's… hum…" Lestrade was clearly embarrassed. Everybody in his team knew about the Consulting Detective, but a French policeman wouldn't know, and moreover the idea of having a civilian messing with the case might be not so great. "They are… sort of consultants here."

"Consultants?" She raised her eyebrows. Suddenly she stopped in the middle of the corridor and abruptly turned to face Sherlock. They looked at each other defiantly for a long moment.

"Problem?" He said finally.

"Not yet." Then she seemed to remember something. "Oh right! The net phenomenon." A sweet malicious smile illuminated her face. She glanced at John: "You have an awesome blog." And without waiting for a reply, she went in the open door.

Unfortunately she was blocked by a long-haired man in forensic suit. "And who are YOU? I can't allow civilians on my crime scene!"

His subordinate's inappropriate behavior took Lestrade by surprise, but Sorrel didn't flinch.

"Oh, but I am NOT a civilian" she said and simply moved Anderson out of her way by angrily staring at him. While Greg and John were still confused, Sherlock burst out laughing and followed her in the room.

It was a spacious suite. Gold and light brown colors were dominating. Beside signs of investigation, one would say the room was barely used. There was a huge grey case left open near the Victorian styled bedside table. Lying down on immaculate yellow silk sheets, the body of Robert Mercier was a dark spot in this dreamy place. Miss Sorrel went straight to the body and leaned to carefully examine the dead man. While she was at it, Holmes wandered around with his magnifier out of the pocket, taking mental notes of the scene arrangement.

After getting the silent consent from Lestrade, John joined Sorrel in the examination of the body. Apparently she wasn't disposed to share her opinion, and swiftly retreated. Frowning, Dr Watson inspected the corpse. Lestrade stayed at the doorstep, and Miss Sorrel tried to not get in the way of 'consultants'. Holmes already finished his observation, and then got interested in the victim.

"What do you think, John?" he asked.

"He's dead for some time already… I'd say more than 12 hours. Strangled. With this scarf and a stick, obviously, it's still around his neck. However… I can't find any marks of resistance."

"Really?"

Sherlock started his own assessment. He quickly retraced all significant facts about the victim. _This man was taking care of himself, but he was not what you'd call an athlete. He already had a heart attack, three to four years ago. There was nothing left in his pockets, not even a passport or a plane ticket, which was surprising, knowing he was killed just after checking in. Sherlock remembered seeing the documents carefully stored on the coffee table. Would a normal person leave it there? The scarf used to strangle Robert was probably his own, the color matched his coat left in the entrance, but where did this stick come from? It was used to ensure the strangulation. Usually, this method was employed by physically weak killers. Or people who loved to get off with little effort._ After taking a good look of the murder weapon, he was about to ask something, when Miss Sorrel finally talked. Until now she was just observing their activity, silently leant against the wall.

"It really is Robert. I wasn't certain at first, but couldn't mistake him for anyone else."

"That's getting easier" was Consultant Detective's reaction.

Twelve seconds later, he was triumphantly smirking while searching some additional data on his phone. That was the moment Anderson chose to pop up behind Lestrade.

"It's a robbery. The thief was about to get caught and killed this French guy" he said, convinced that his guess was correct.

"Oh, please, shut up!" shouted Holmes and Sorrel with one voice. Everybody stared at them with surprise, and they defied each other again with distrustful glares. Eventually, Sorrel chose to surrender and looked away with a pout. Making an irritated expression and glaring at Anderson and Sorrel alternately, Sherlock started his explanation:

"He was killed for a less petty reason than a simple robbery. This modus operandi is too sophisticated and quite sadistic. And as Dr Watson said, this man did not resist. He was fully awake; there are no traces of him being hit, no traces of drugs, so why would he let himself be killed? He must have had a good reason for…"

Her clear voice interrupted his showing-off: "His son."

"Excuse me?"

"Eric Mercier, 10 years-old son of the victim. Is he at the police station?" she asked Lestrade.

"There is nobody…" he started.

"He was here. You must have seen it, right? In the case." She looked agitated.

"What's in the case?" Anderson said with an apparent disgust.

"Child clothes" Sherlock reacted after a quick glance to the bedside. "He came on a trip with his son. That means…"

"They took the kid." After a breath, French detective continued: "And most likely, they…"

"… got the information they wanted" Consulting Detective finished her sentence. "I have to check on something" he said and stormed out the room.

"Well, then, see you!" John added before following him in the corridor.

"Is he always this sharing?.." Miss Sorrel didn't look like wanting an answer, but Lestrade couldn't resist:

"And that was him being in a good mood."

"Poor you… "Then she suddenly offered: "Want me to keep an eye on those two? I'll report you everything they find." That was rather an unexpected turn of events.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked just to be sure he heard it right.

"I'd like to observe their methods. I know my presence is enforced to you, so it'll be beneficial to both of us." She was gazing at the door, lost in her thoughts but still speaking loud and clear.

Detective Inspector surrendered rather quickly: "Well, I guess it's your choice, do as you want."

"Ta." She left the room promptly and yet gracefully.


	4. Chapter 4 - Getting to Know You

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_Once again, I'm properly terrified that my writing would be horrible, or that I'd mess the spelling/pick wrong words… So I'm desperately looking for a beta for my later chapters! *please, please, please, can you help?*_

_Please review and tell me if anything's wrong or just if you like it, that'd be lovely =)_

_Thanks for reading =)_

Chapter 4. Getting to know you

Meanwhile, Watson was desperately trying to keep on Holmes' pace. His friend was hyperactive every time he was on the track. First of all they went questioning the maid who found the body, then two porters who had been in service that night, and finally they got out the hotel and were heading to Baker Street. It was the best moment to ask questions.

"Do you have any idea of that kid's whereabouts?"

"He's obviously with the killer." Sherlock was still thinking.

"Right…"

Abruptly, Holmes snapped out of his brainwork: "I need to know more about Mercier's threats."

"Then just ask this French girl about it."

"No."

"Why not?" John was surprised at the tone used in this simple rejection. He wondered if Sherlock could possibly be jealous of the young woman.

"She's not as clean as she pretends to be."

"Aren't you a little bit too suspicious? By the way, she resembles you …"

Now he got Sherlock's full attention: "What are you talking about?"

Slightly amused, he explained: "You're working the same way… You're finishing each other's phrases! And just physically, she looks somewhat like you… I mean, I've never dreamt of seeing a female version of Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked childishly grave: "Does it look like that to you? I didn't get this feeling at all. She makes me think of someone I can't remember and it's annoying."

"Well, it's just an impression, isn't it?" Watson tried to cheer up his friend while they were paying for the cab and getting in 221b Baker Street. But there was a surprise awaiting them upstairs.

"Oh, hello, so that's where you live?"

"What. Are. YOU. Doing. Here?" Holmes yapped.

"I brought you my files on Mercier. Want to take a look?"

Vexed, Consultant Detective played deaf and disappeared in the kitchen. Soon the clatter of his lab equipment being set up arose from the half-closed door. That didn't disturb the French girl; she just smiled and gazed at Dr Watson, holding a thick file out to him.

"John?"

Positively charmed, he couldn't resist. After handing the file to John, Miss Sorrel looked around the room, very curious. The living room was a real mess, since no one cared to tidy up after both residents left in a hurry.

"Are you always so disorganized? I guess it's not convenient for your job."

Sherlock reappeared and muttered in response to her remark: "What would you know?"

"Not so much."

While they were arguing, Watson skimmed through the police file. Something bothered him in there.

"Wait a minute… Shouldn't these data be in French?"

"Oh, that! I translated it in case my British colleagues would need it."

"How kind of you" Holmes said sarcastically. He crossed the room and pretended to be storing documents lying around the table.

She took a deep breath, probably trying to not get irritated. "I like your methods, you know. Teach me."

John choked when she walked straight to Sherlock, with an inquisitive look, frail and determinate. As the Great Detective still faked to be extremely busy, she simply talked to his back: "I want to learn from you."

That must have flattered Holmes' ego, but surprisingly enough he withstood the temptation of being worshiped. This girl was so unusual, so different from ordinary people, and it was disturbing. He never liked to be puzzled, especially when the right answer was floating on borders of his mind. With a solemn face, he forced himself to turn around and to say gravely: "No way."

She didn't look upset or anything, even her voice didn't change: "Pity." Sorrel turned away and headed towards the staircase. Sherlock seemed relieved while John stayed in a daze. Suddenly, she changed her mind. She glanced at both of them over her shoulder with a snooty smile: "By the way, I met someone you know. A breath-taking woman! She taught me… lots of things. About you."

All the time she talked, Sherlock went pale, but fortunately Watson's attention was focused on the young woman, otherwise he could have started observing and eventually finding out about Irene's real fate. 'Cause this French kid has obviously met The Woman after her official death.

"Well then…"

Her showy leaving was stopped by a sharp and pressing call.

"Remind me your name."

"Rita. Rita Sorrel" she said with a sad smile, not looking at any of them.

"You may come in handy" Sherlock announced before sitting in his favorite chair and drowning in his thoughts.

Surprised, Rita and John stared at him, then at each other. She displayed a beaming smile, somehow reminding Holmes' grin at moments he gets a really tricky case. She even faintly jumped for joy.

"Why do I feel like I missed something?" John asked, still gripping to the police file.

"It's a secret" she said and winked like a high school girl.


	5. Chapter 5 - Threats and Quarrels

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_Still looking for a beta, or just someone to point out my errors._

_By the way, I just realized that there was no time-line… Well, I guess it's happening sometime around S2E2 Baskerville case. Probably after this case, since I wanted Sherlock to be able already to deal with some of his emotions (fear, worry, etc.) in this story._

_Please review and tell me if anything's wrong or just if you like it, that'd be lovely =)_

_Thanks for reading!_

Chapter 5. Threats and quarrels

Sherlock emerged from his mind palace four hours later. It was long past midday and shadows started to grow in the room, all the things taking a warm orange shade. He found the file Rita brought placed carefully on the arm of his chair. Forgetting his conflicting feelings concerning this woman, he grabbed the yellow sleeve and leafed through documents. Eventually he found the 'treasure' – copies of threat mails.

"_N'oublie jamais. __Tu ne t'échapperas pas." _And "_Bientôt tu seras réduit au silence._"

Holmes whispered these phrases in English: "Never forget. You shall not escape. Soon you'll be silent forever."

"What are you talking about?"

Dr Watson was sitting in the chair in front of his flat mate, a newspaper on his lap. He was used to Sherlock's thinking habits; hours spent spacing out of reality. Sherlock eyed his best friend silently, pondering if he should go into details or not.

"Mails received by Mercier. Threats. But what was he about to forget?"

John replied honestly: "I don't know."

"Maybe Mercier was about to reveal something. I need to know what."

"Perhaps, Rita knows about it."

"I do not trust her. Where is she?"

Sherlock would always speak with short and acerbic phrases whenever he or his thoughts were contradicted. Watson knew well about this and wouldn't pay attention at his friend's crappy attitude, even if sometimes he would just go ballistic about it. Happily it was one of many days when he'd stay patient.

"She went out an hour ago, just to get a spare of clothes."

"What for? She's wasting our time."

"No, she's not… You spent hours pondering your deductions, and she didn't want to disturb you."

"Are you siding with this woman?!"

Holmes was sulking just like a little boy whose best friend went to play with other kids. Half amused and half exasperated, Watson tried to explain himself:

"We chatted a little, and she's a good person, you know. And she's clever, I mean, like really clever. A 25-years-old senior detective, the youngest in France."

"Oh really? That changes everything."

"Come on, why are you so against her?!"

"Because I don't understand her!"

"Then talk to her!"

They glared at each other when the person in question came in. Rita completely changed her style. Instead of an official suit, she was wearing black jeans and a dark blue hoodie. Her slightly curly hair was tied up in a ponytail. Right at this moment, no one would be able to tell she's a policeman, either that she's over twenty.

"What's with this outfit?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"Thanks, you look great, too" she said while casually dropping her black raincoat on the sofa. "I just wanted to blend in the crowd."

"So you don't want to be seen."

"Well, that's a basic aptitude for a detective, isn't it?"

Before they could continue this heated exchange, John stepped in: "Rita, can you tell us more about Robert Mercier? What kind of man was he?"

She remained silent for a second, glowering at Sherlock who feigned a deep concern for the police file. Then her expression changed to a sweet one as she started talking to Watson: "Robert was a business man. His company sells wines all over Europe. As far as I know, in his youth he dreamed to be a spy, even took exams in this field, but failed. After that he got married, started this wine business and had a son."

"He wanted to be a spy?!"

"Yeah. He told me about it, first thing he said about himself. He was an outstanding person, whatever people say."

"Interesting" Holmes said with an empty look and a slight grin on his face.

"That's why I slipped a list of his 'spy' friends into the file." Rita unwittingly replicated his expression. "I even know where some of them hold their meetings."

"Somewhere in France, right? Useless."

"They're in London. He came here to meet them."

Both detectives looked at each other, first grave, then with disquieting stars in their eyes.

"Certain?"

"Of course."

"Then…"

"It'd be fun!"

"You know what I think about your presence."

"Don't worry; you'll change your mind."

"Don't be so full of yourself."

"Don't talk like an old geezer!"

"Can you PLEASE stop doing this!?" Watson shouted. He felt as if two smart but unmanageable kids gave him a funny look. _Not quite inaccurate._ At last, Sherlock attempted to make it clear:

"Doing what?"

"Diving in your own world, I didn't get any bloody thing you were talking about! Are you using telepathy or something?!"

Sorrel's reaction to this little speech was rather unexpected: "Are you jealous then?" Her attitude became that of a scientist absorbed in a bewitching experiment: empty look, expressionless face, dried lips, bending forward… That was not what one would call normal, but actually not so shocking for someone who lived with Sherlock. And after all, Rita was intentionally underlining her switch in attitudes every time she spoke to one of them.

Perplexed, John gave a wavering answer: "Erm… Nope."

Sherlock chose to have the last word: "He is exasperated. You should know the difference."

She snapped out of her dream state: "Oh, well, sorry 'bout that… Are we going then?"

"Going where?" John asked, forfeiting any chance of grasping the situation on his own.

They replied with one voice: "Spying on the spies' meeting!"


	6. Chapter 6 - Looking for a Spy

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_ElectricAnya, thank you for following! =)_

_Still looking for a beta, or just someone to point out my errors._

_This chapter is short, but it's getting better later ;) I've never been in London (and I'm regretting it, need to fix it soon), so I avoided any details about the city, hope it's not too weird that way._

_Reviews would be lovely!_

_Thanks for reading!_

Chapter 6. Looking for a spy

So that's how they ended in a crowded street in the middle of London. After taking a brief moment to set up a strategy, they all left in different directions. While Sherlock was creeping around the place, John went looking for a place which could be a convenient meeting spot for a small group of spy-freaks. Sometimes he would turn around and try to catch sight of Rita's reddish hair, but she'd stay invisible in the city's twilight. There was a street performer not so far away, playing guitar and singing love songs, and people passed by, and he still sang.

After roaming around for half an hour, Watson gave himself a break, since his shoulder had started hurting, an omen of a heavy rain. The guitarist was still out there, leaning against a shop window. He even had a little audience. Surprised, John realized that Rita was one of those listeners. He made his way to her through the crowd. She smiled gently at the doctor but said nothing. After a long and somewhat embarrassing silence, John spoke:

"Did you find something?"

"I found a great musician" she answered casually.

"Erm… We're not supposed to look for this, aren't we?"

"Not really. Sorry, I got trapped by the song. Did you manage to hit upon something?"

"No, nothing at all…"

"Let's go then! We have to be scolded by Sherlock."

Watson followed her through the crowd to the agreed place. He was pondering about Rita's strange personality: she was passing from dreamy contemplation to childish impudence, keeping on surprising people around her by a quick wit; but even if her intellect was nearly as great as Sherlock's, she wasn't a show-off, always staying discreet and speaking out her mind only when she was asked for it. Well, that was it only when Holmes wasn't around. His presence seemed to be a special trigger, since the calm and mature Rita became mischievous, talkative and greedy for attention whenever the Consultant Detective was there. She would try to contradict or to complete his statements. John speculated on the reasons for this drastic behavior change: perhaps, she was just irritated or jealous of Sherlock, but it didn't sound like her… Despite being eccentric, this girl had a kind heart, he was rather sure of it. So maybe she wanted to be acknowledged by Sherlock. That's not impossible… Unwillingly, John felt a hint of jealousy towards his friend.

They arrived in front of a small café. Rita seemed to cheer up a little.

"By the way, John, I really like your blog! Are you going to write about this case?"

"Well, yes, I guess so." He was obviously flattered.

"Go easy on me, ok?" She said with a charming smile.

They chatted about cases published on the blog for a moment. After a while, Rita looked around and stated nonchalantly: "Sherlock is late."

"Yeah, right…" John began to worry. It would be so like Holmes to chase someone without warning anyone, or to be too absorbed by the new lead and stop caring about time, or even to just get into some serious trouble.

This is when she took out an ornate pocket watch. It was made of bronze and had a long chain used to be worn around the neck. It was surprising to see this kind of accessory nowadays, with everyone having smartphones, electronic watches and all. She routinely opened the device: "He should have been here ten minutes ago…"

"Where did you get this?!"


	7. Chapter 7 - The Pocket-Watch

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_I got my first review, I'm so happy! =)_

_Ok, so we're slowly moving to the main puzzle ;)_

_*spoilers* About the name change, basically it's just repeating my thoughts while trying to find a name for my OC. I wish it'd have more esoteric sense, but… no can do._

_Reviews would be lovely =)_

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Chapter 7. The pocket watch

Sherlock suddenly appeared behind them and violently gripped Rita's hand holding the pocket watch. The chain broke and went flying between them like a torn ribbon in the wind. Rita clenched her fist, but said nothing. Holmes was staring at her almost with pure hate, an expression John never saw on him in the fifteen months he knew him.

"Where. Did. YOU. Get. THIS?!" He repeated angrily.

She pulled herself together, gave him a furious glare, freed her wrist and hissed: "Not. Your. Business!"

Watson just started to recover from the shock of seeing his emotionless friend nearly attacking someone with no reason: "What's going on?"

Squeezing the watch against her chest, Rita shouted: "I'm leaving!" and ran away.

"What the bloody hell was that about?!" John articulated while he was losing sight of Rita, then he saw how agitated his friend was. "Are you alright? Sherlock?"

Holmes was even more pale than usual, not paying attention to his surroundings and murmuring to himself with an almost crazy voice: "Might be coincidence… But it's highly unlikely… It can't be, so why is it…"

Alarmed, Watson put his hand on his friend's shoulder in a shy attempt to attract his attention: "Sherlock?" Holmes seemed to emerge from his strange state. He gazed at John, a little bit surprised by the doctor's worried face. _John's worried. About me? Oh, right, I didn't tell him…_

"I'm alright, alright… Have you seen it? Where did she go?"

"Seen what? And you just scared her away!"

"The watch, the pocket watch, did you have a good look on it? What was it like?"

Perplexed, Watson still tried to remember some details: "It was an old-fashioned watch, maybe a family souvenir, I guess…" Seeing Sherlock's disappointed face, he continued: "The ornament was really pretty, roses and thorns. But why is it troubling you?"

"I'm not troubled. It is THIS watch, I am certain. We need to find this woman."

"Would you mind telling me what's happening?" John felt irritated. Not so many people are able to follow the pace of Holmes' thoughts, and he never expected to be one of those who could pair with the genius. Watson had his own field of expertise.

"Later. Let's find her first!"

They raced in the direction Rita left, looking for her distinctive reddish brown hair. Minutes passed, but there was no sign of her being around. However they stopped only when both of them were out of breath.

"It's no use…" panted John. "She could have got a cab and go anywhere…"

"It's more likely that she's hiding somewhere" Sherlock objected.

"She's not a criminal, you know…"

"Look!" he shouted, pointing to the other side of the main road. Watson followed his gaze and identified Rita's thin silhouette some twenty-five yards further away across the road at the crosswalk. She was staying still, even when the light turned green, pensively examining a small item in the palm of her left hand, most likely the infamous pocket watch.

Sherlock and John briefly looked at each other and were about to head towards the 'runaway' when a black car stopped at the traffic light. Rita came out of her trance and stared at the car door opening. Suddenly what she saw inside the vehicle alarmed her, since she nervously stepped back.

At this moment, they both realized something was wrong. Sherlock rushed through the road, nearly causing an accident, John ran to the crosswalk, but it was too late. An imposing strong-armed man appeared behind Rita and blocked all her escape ways. She glanced at him with fear, then at the car again. The watch slipped from her hand, she shook her head and obediently went into the vehicle. Doors closed a second before Sherlock reached the spot; the car violently drove off despite his impressive yell "Stop this car!" He even attempted to race the engine, but was almost knocked down by another automobile – fortunately Watson pushed him to the sidewalk in time.

"It doesn't look like she met some friends, right?" John said, gasping for breath.

"Definitely." Sherlock hurried back to the crosswalk and examined the ground.

"What are you doing?" Being at the other side of the road, John couldn't possibly see the pocket watch falling down.

"Finding clues." He stood up, triumphantly holding the broken chain and the device hung on it.

Forgetting about passerby's inquisitive glances, Watson came closer so he could have a decent view of the gadget. "Is there something special about it?"

"She dropped it. She wanted us to find it." Sherlock disappeared again in his mind palace.

"Sound observation. By the way, I should call Lestrade; his colleague being abducted…" Seeing that nothing he could say would have an impact, John just took some steps aside in order to make the phone call. Holmes continued mumbling to himself:

"It couldn't be someone else, not with this reaction… Why this name? Rita, Rita, Ri…ta… ri… Tori…"

John ended his call and turned to him: "I warned Lestrade, he's coming here…"

"Victoria."

"What? Who?"

That was obviously a flash of inspiration, not so uncommon for Holmes. "She is Victoria. She grew up. No, it's still conceivable that I'm wrong… John, I need your help."

"Of course. For what?"

"Identification. I'll be going, need to confirm some information, you deal with the police! See you at Baker Street!"

"Wait a…!"

But the Detective already stopped a cab, while two police cars were driving near, blue lights flashing all around.


	8. Chapter 8 - Victoria

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_A glimpse of kid!lock in this one, a bit of angst too. Actually, this chapter and the next are my favorite part of the story. Hope you'll like it!_

_I do realize that some of medical points may be inaccurate, but I'm not an expert. _

_ElectricAnya : Sorry for the cliffhanger ^^_

_Reviews would be lovely =)_

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Chapter 8. Victoria

Night fell on London. It was around midnight when Watson showed up at home. Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes closed, three nicotine patches on his forearm. A pack of old faded photos was scattered over the coffee table. Since his flat mate wasn't reacting to his presence, John examined some of those pictures. They dated early-90's judging by everybody's outfits. It staged three kids, one clearly older than two others. To his own surprise, John recognized Mycroft Holmes being the teen. He considered more carefully two kids who were appearing in Mycroft's company. Those were a dark-haired boy, always displaying a know-it-all expression, and a braided little girl, looking admiringly at her companions. Watson frowned, and then faintly grinned…

"The boy IS me." Sherlock cut short to his reasoning. Noticing his friends' doubtful expression, he added: "I was thirteen."

"Seriously?" John said, reexamining photos with a fresh look.

"That's not relevant. Look at the girl. Does she remind you someone?"

Clueless, Watson obediently observed the little girl on captured images. She looked younger than the little Sherlock, as thin as him, but clearly not as showy as him. Her braided hair was raven black and smooth. She'd always be either clinging to Sherlock or looking up to Mycroft.

"She looks close to you and your brother. A childhood friend?"

"This one." Sherlock stood up and handed him a portrait of the girl. "What would she look like today?"

Dr Watson frowned, analyzing details as a medic. Child growth isn't an easy thing to predict, but the more he looked at her, the more she reminded him of a woman met recently…

"It can't be… Rita Sorrel?" He asked hesitantly.

"So I'm not the only one seeing this." Holmes was relieved and troubled in the same time. "She is Victoria."

"Victoria?..."

"It's a long story." The Great Detective hid his eyes by walking through the living room. John had rarely seen him so anxious. The usual Sherlock wouldn't display any other emotion than interest, excitement, boredom and irritation. But then, by the looks of it, it wasn't an ordinary situation, and John wished he could be of any help to his friend.

"Why don't you tell me? Maybe we can figure out something."

Sherlock went to the window and glanced over at the desert street. He hesitated. _Maybe never talking about this matter was not a wise choice. He can't pick right words. But John will understand. John may be the only one able to understand what he was feeling, even if he would never admit having sentiments. _"Victoria is my younger sister."

For a moment, Watson choked back his surprise: "Your sister. Right."

"What's so surprising?" Sherlock pouted. "You have a sister too!"

"I do, sure… You never talked about having a younger sibling!"

"Well, there's not so much to say. She went missing fifteen years ago."

"Oh God. Sorry." John was aghast at the news.

"And now, she comes back as a French detective, says nothing and gets herself kidnapped right in front of me! This idiot, is she trying to play me?!" The burst of anger was so unusual and unexpected that Watson didn't know how to react._ Sherlock was deadly worried, _he realized. _He was worried about the girl and powerless to reach her._ Meanwhile, Sherlock continued more calmly: "When I analyzed her current handwriting, I knew she had an identity problem, a doubt about her own personality. That and circumstances of her disappearance, she's probably suffering from amnesia."

"Ok, hold on, how can you say this? Except severe disorders, amnesia can't be detected" Watson objected.

"Look at this!" Sherlock pulled a piece of paper from the police file they left on the chair before leaving. "She wrote this. Those lines, there and there, it's as if two different persons were writing it – one is strong-willed, determined, the other is shy and insecure. I don't think this girl has a personality disorder, but her made-up character is surely battling with her previous dispositions and education. As a child, she used to always imitate me. A stubborn one."

While he was talking, Watson examined carefully the handwriting. He wasn't as accurate as Sherlock in this kind of thing, but at least he was able to see the difference between paragraphs. "Ok, right, even I could see that her personality bounces from child to adult."

"Amnesia is the only possible explanation of her behavior."

"Is it?" A calm and haughty voice spoke behind their backs.

Both friends turned towards the door. Mycroft Holmes was standing there, gravely staring at his younger brother: "This woman is not Victoria."

Sherlock just ignored the remark. "How did you get in? Mrs Hudson is at her sister's for two days."

"I have my ways."

John interfered before those two siblings could start their typical 'exchange of courtesies': "Why are you here? At this time of night, I mean?" In fact, he already knew the answer – Sherlock might had called his ubiquitous brother and asked for data on Rita's life. Actually, it was exactly the case, since Mycroft was holding to an official-looking folder.

"I was worried about Sherlock being carried away by improbable assumptions" Mycroft answered. Sometimes he would seem to consider only John as an adult, and then to speak only to him.

"Improbable assumptions?!" Sherlock was boiling inside.

"French colleagues send me Rita Sorrel's file. You should take a look at this."

Sherlock grabbed the documents his brother held out to him.

"What's the more, you need to accept already Victoria's death."

* * *

_A/N Please don't hate me for keeping you in suspense! I'll make up for it by updating quickly!_


	9. Chapter 9 - Memories

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_My thanks to Miss-Fantomette for following, and to LacyMarie97 for following and favouriting! Thank you for your support, it means a lot!_

_A bit of kid!lock here again, a lot of angst._

_I did my best to edit this chapter (nearly ten proof readings, argh…), but I still have the feeling it's not as good as it should be… Never thought it's so frightening to post a story!_

_Reviews would be lovely =)_

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Chapter 9. Memories

John couldn't hide his stunned astonishment: "She's dead?!"

Sherlock was the one who answered: "Never found. Doesn't mean dead." Then he suddenly rushed to his room and slammed the door. Somewhat confused, John looked at Mycroft, who sighed deeply.

"Now that the cat is out of the bag, I might as well tell you, John…" He sat down in the chair and silently beckoned Watson to do the same. What he was about to reveal was clearly something he always tried to forget. "Victoria was an… unexpected child. She never met our father, and then took me and Sherlock as her model. However, she was a person of rare kindness." Mycroft stopped to take a breath, and John didn't hurry him to continue. "One day she went missing. No note, nothing. Ten-years-old kids usually don't go for a wander alone. We searched everywhere, even contacted the police. But the only thing found was her coat with traces of blood, dumped in a trash can in the middle of London. I personally witnessed DNA tests. It was her blood." He sighed again. "Sherlock was at his boarding school during the incident. He found out about Victoria disappearance by reading newspapers. He resented me for not telling him immediately. But at that time I just didn't want to endanger my brother as well…"

While talking, Mycroft kept gazing at bookshelves. As the older sibling, he must have borne a sad feeling of guilt and a heavy responsibility of preserving his brother from the same fate as their sister. Somehow, John felt sorry for him. Besides, he understood a little better the reasons of the elder Holmes' awkward carrying for the irresponsible World's Only Consulting Detective. As Mycroft stayed silent for a while, Watson dared to ask:

"Do you think it would be impossible for her to have survived?"

Snapping out of his dark thoughts, the elder Holmes took an annoyed expression: "You mean, is it possible for Rita Sorrel to be my sister? No, it's not."

"But…"

Mycroft cut him off: "Rita Sorrel is an orphan. Raised by a nice couple who received a fair amount of money from an anonymous relative to take care of the child, most likely its own father. According to my information, this anonymous donator was no else than Robert Mercier."

"Mercier?! The victim?!"

"Exactly…"

"And do you know who the nephew of the victim is?" Sherlock had soundlessly left his room and stood behind Mycroft, balancing a laptop on his left hand.

"What does it have to do with this case?" Mycroft was not surprised, but annoyed again. He didn't even look at Sherlock.

"Oliver Sorrel. Does it ring a bell, brother dear?"

"What?!"

"Scotland Yard broke into Robert's computer. They sent me a copy of his mails." Sherlock looked jubilant while Mycroft turned pale.

"Am I missing on something?" John asked, feeling out of the loop once again. Mycroft was the one who answered, anticipating his younger brother's replica.

"Oliver was my classmate in university. Always desperately trying to surpass me in everything we did. He emigrated to France decades ago…"

Sherlock couldn't hold back anymore: "And he took his mother's name, Mercier. Take a look."

He placed his laptop on the dining table so everyone could see the screen. The last mail of the dead businessman was displayed as following:

"_Oliver, whatever you say, I will not change my mind. I covered for your dirty doings for too long. Now my son is the same age that this girl was when you nearly killed her. I still have nightmares about that day, her head soaked in blood, her empty eyes and her feeble voice asking me her own name. I covered for you. I took this child away and stole her memories. And now I'm wondering what I would do if someone did the same to Eric. I saw this girl last week. She's working in the police now. She will figure out something. But you are not allowed to continue your traffic under my name anymore. Adieu._"

"Dramatic, isn't it?" Sherlock commented.

His brother muttered in response: "It doesn't prove anything…"

"It proves everything! Oliver didn't dare to kill our sister, but hurt her enough for her to lose memory. Then Robert Mercier carried her out the country and placed in a host family. And years after that, Robert was moved by some sentiment and tried to reveal the truth. That's why he was killed, that's why Victoria was abducted today. Can't you see?!"

"Are you telling me I did not do enough to find her?!" Mycroft stood up with rage and coldly faced his sibling.

"No… But you gave up on her."

An oppressive silence fell in the living-room. You could almost feel electricity crackle around. John wisely didn't interfere with the wordless fight. In the end, Mycroft looked away, surrendering.

"She was closer to you than to me, but I DO care for her. Don't turn me into the guilty one."

"I do not" Sherlock responded slowly.

Ignoring his brother, Mycroft turned to John: "Make sure he doesn't go wild."

"Count on me" he replied, half-serious and half-ironic.

Then Mycroft went to the door without saying anything more. They waited until the door slammed to exchange irritated glances – Sherlock was angry because of his older brother, and John was mad at both of them because of their eternal misunderstandings, but they didn't comment on each other.


	10. Chapter 10 - Ryan Hatherley

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_First of all, I want to thank all those who read, favourited and reviewed my one-shot 'Are You Alright?' (not sure whether you pass by here, guys, but nevertheless, thank you so much for your support, it makes me super happy! *right now I'm grinning at the screen like an idiot*)._

_Back to C&M, this chapter is a sort of a loooong interlude. I borrowed the plot from Sir ACD, because it's one of my favorite stories (guess which one?)._

_Reviews and critics would be lovely =)_

_Thank you for reading and enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 10. Ryan Hatherley

"What are we supposed to do now?" Watson said, seriously worried about Rita… no, Victoria.

"I need to find her." Sherlock rushed to his book-shelves and took out a map. His mind was working at the usual extraordinary speed, analyzing the data Victoria brought from France, his own deductions about the case and recollections about Oliver Sorrel, searching for a pattern, a place or a hint.

John was about to put aside his frustration and to start helping his friend in this new and urgent task, when someone pressed the doorbell. Aware that Sherlock was way too much absorbed in his research, Watson silently went downstairs to open the front door.

It was pouring outside, and there was a tall skinny young man, almost a teenager, white as a sheet and trembling. As a doctor, John immediately noticed that this man suffered from anemia. "Jesus, what happened?!" he asked while making the visitor come in.

When he entered the poorly lit hallway, the youngster shivered and almost lost his balance. In order to remain standing, he grabbed John's shoulder with his right hand, wrapped in a handkerchief, which was drenched with blood. "I'm… I…" he tried to say something but ended up losing consciousness. Ultimately surprised but not losing his cool, Watson carried him to the small hall and shouted: "Sherlock! I need your help here!" The sound of hurried steps upstairs informed him that the message went through.

"What happened?" Sherlock sounded slightly worried. John answered while laying the young man on the lonely chair which he left there in the morning after changing the light bulb:

"Can you come down and help me out?"

He rubbed his shoulder, thinking about bringing the unconscious patient up to the apartment by himself, but that'd have been too much effort considering his old wound. "Who's that?" Holmes inquired after charging down the stairs.

"No idea. Let's move him to our flat."

Somehow they carried the young man in their apartment and set him carefully on the couch. John kneeled down in front of the youth, frowning at the red-stained makeshift dressing.

"Would you bring my medical bag from my room? Like, right now?"

Sherlock rushed out the living-room and soon came back with the demanded item.

"Ta." Watson said and took the medical bag, too focused on his patient to be polite.

He undid the bloody handkerchief, revealing an unsightly injury: the thumb on the right hand was missing, neatly cut. The wound was fresh and untreated, and the young man had already lost lots of blood. "Get him some water" the doctor ordered while cleaning the damaged hand and applying a disinfectant. Holmes sneered unwillingly – that was the first time ever he was playing the role of assistant. But his friend, as a medic, wouldn't suffer anyone to interfere in his legitimate 'case', and for the time being Sherlock obediently brought a glass filled with water from the kitchen. Meanwhile, John changed the dressing and carefully examined the young man. During his career, he saw injuries ten times worse than this one.

Forgetting for a moment about his family troubles, Sherlock felt curious about what his doctor could observe. "What are your conclusions?"

"He's in his twenties, probably a student, and not a diligent one judging by the smell of alcohol on his clothes." John was talking while taking the pulse. "But he's taking care of himself, so apart his hand he doesn't seem to have any health problems." He put an iron soluble tablet in the glass Sherlock brought and made his patient drink it. The young man choked, but colors returned to his cheeks and he opened his eyes, glancing with fear at his surroundings. John talked to him in a comforting manner: "It's okay now. You'll be alright."

"I… I'm… I was…" he mumbled again.

"Calm down. Tell me your name."

The young man seemed to regain composure: "Ryan… Ryan Hatherley, I'm finishing my engineering studies at the Imperial College… And… and…" He lifted his right hand to mop his brow and turned white by seeing bandages. John's prompt reaction caught by surprise even his best friend – after all, he was a very good doctor. He forced Ryan to look straight at him and talked to him calmly, explaining that even after suffering a severe blood loss and losing a thumb, people still live and live well, and that young as he is, Ryan shouldn't worry, nor panic, whatever happened, it was all over now. The young man listened to those words, slowly giving in. He stopped trembling, regained some colors.

"Can you answer some questions?"

"Y… yes, I think so" Ryan said hesitantly. Then John took a step back still watching closely his patient, and nodded at Sherlock, giving him permission to question the unexpected visitor. Holmes was already twitching impatiently; there was no need to implore.

Kneeling in front of the chair, looking at the student as if he was about to hypnotize the poor boy, Sherlock asked in an imposing manner he used from time to time: "Tell me what happened."

Hatherley stared at Holmes with a blank expression on his face. John was about to shake him when he started to talk: "I can't remember everything. It's so blurry…"

"Tell us what you recall."

"We made a bet with my friends… actually, no, it was a courage test. I went there…"

"Where?"

"This abandoned building… Abandoned house, not so far from Greenwich. It was just a joke, really, I had to spend two hours inside and take some photos as proof…"

"But something went wrong?"

"I roamed around, and it was creepy, but still it was just some garbage scattered everywhere… Then… I don't know, God, I don't know!" He cried, clasping his hands before his face.

John pushed Sherlock away and tried to calm down the young man: "Look at me. Breathe. Come on, like that. Breathe. You're safe now."

Sobbing, Ryan returned to his story: "Someone must have knocked me off. I can't remember a thing until there was a bright light…"

_Ryan woke up lying on the cold floor. He was too confused to understand a thing. Someone stood up behind him and put an icy stick on his neck. A man, whose face he couldn't see, approached. That felt real bad. A child sobbed. A woman shouted from shadows: "Stop it! He has nothing to do with us!" – "He'll be the messenger" answered the scary man. He grabbed Ryan's hair and forced him to look up. The bright light blinded him. He just heard this cruel voice repeating three times "You will go to 221B Baker Street. You will give them twenty four hours." A rude hand grabbed his arm and it hurt so much he lost consciousness. He woke up again, dumped alongside the speedway. He managed to find a cab and could only give Holmes' address._

Both John and Sherlock listened to this rambling story, increasingly worried. When Hatherley stopped to take his breath, Holmes abruptly ordered: "Dig into your pockets." Startled but intimidated, Ryan obeyed, awkwardly moving his injured hand. John came to his rescue, and together they pulled out two keys, a lighter, a cellphone and some scattered paper.

"Is there something you do not own?" Sherlock asked, presenting this hodgepodge of items to Ryan.

The young man looked haunted, but honestly tried to inspect those objects. "That's not my writing" he finally said, picking a notepad page, neatly folded.

Sherlock examined the note first. _The handwriting was neat and clean, easily read. The one who wrote it used a cheap blue pen, probably a new one. And the author was obviously a man. _Then the detective gave attention to the text.

"_My dear little Holmes, come if you dare. Bet you know where and when. There is room only for three people at my place. We'll be waiting."_

Frowning, he passed the message to John.

"Is it what I think it is?" John said wavering.

"It is Oliver's doing. He is defying me… Or more likely my brother."

"Why Mycroft?"

"Rivalry turned to obsession. From his point of view, I am just a tool to make Mycroft react. Somehow, that's the reason he made Victoria disappear. He wants attention…" Sherlock started walking round and round, causing Ryan to nervously look at the door. Noticing that, John tried to appease his friend:

"Then should I call him?"

"Absolutely not! Call Lestrade. He'll be coming with us." After saying this, Sherlock rushed to his room.

"Who… Who are you, people?" Ryan asked faintly.

"Consulting detectives." John answered gently. "Ever heard about us?"

"You're the guy writing a blog, right?.."

"Exactly." The doctor smiled, as always when his blog was acknowledged. "Well, you should not worry about all this. I will contact my friend working at the hospital right away; he'll come to pick you up. You need more than a basic treatment." He took out his phone and composed Stamford's number.

"Thank you, sir…" Ryan mumbled before tiredly closing his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11 - Get Ready

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_Thank you all for your support! Special thanks to SherlockChlo for following and to Benfan for reviews and support! =)_

_I'm sorry, this one is really short, still an interlude actually… I should have posted it earlier, but studies caught me off-guard and stole my time. I'll update this week-end with a more thrilling chapter._

_Reviews and critics would be lovely =)_

_Thank you for reading and enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 11. Get ready.

It was morning, but they didn't get any sleep. After Mike took the young Hatherley to the hospital, John contacted the Scotland Yard. Lestrade was still at work, pulling an all-nighter on this murder-abduction case. Sherlock rushed out, and here they were, at 7 in the morning, discussing the ambush operation plan. Of course, Holmes had already determined the location. Disregarding John's shy attempts to play fair, he refused to tell the police about Rita being his sister.

At 7:12, Greg yawned and said bluntly: "That's enough. We won't prepare better than this. Both of you should get some sleep before the operation starts."

"I can't sleep!" Sherlock protested, but seeing John's absent look and tired face agreed for a pause. Yet he wouldn't stay still, and went walking in the corridor, mumbling for himself, while Watson was snoring in someone's chair. Only thirty minutes had passed when his phone rang.

"I'm busy" he said, seemingly irritated.

"What are you scheming, Sherlock?" Mycroft overlooked his younger brother's bad temper once again. "You should have contacted me first thing after getting Oliver's note!"

"Well, I didn't. Don't take it personal."

"Don't take it personal?! For Goodness sake, Sherlock! Would you ever understand that I genuinely worry about you?" Since Sherlock stayed silent, he kept going: "And you are not the one who would keep me away from this."

"Do not interfere, Mycroft. It's not about your pride anymore; it's about our sister's life."

"Jesus, do you think I'm that heartless?!" The elder Holmes sounded really exasperated and even hurt. _That's a first._

It took few seconds to the Consulting Detective to feel that he crossed the line: "That's not what I meant." He hesitated before adding: "Still, don't meddle with this. It's my turn." He wasn't waiting for an answer - he said all he got in mind, plus there was no need for words when talking about serious things with Mycroft. As much as it was irritating to admit it, he acknowledged that they were greatly alike in their ways of thinking.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade popped out an open door. "We're heading to the location!"


	12. Chapter 12 - The Dark Room

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners._

_Thank you so much for reading so far! Thanks to kickassd1 for following, and to Benfan for reviewing and supporting me =)_

_This part might be a little short too, but I promise, we're driving closer to some action._

_All critics are welcome and wanted! (Even if you have nothing to say regarding the story, you're welcome to review anyway ;) )_

_Thank you for reading, and enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 12. The dark room

It was dark. How long has she been here? Doesn't matter. Her mind was so confused. After finding herself stuck in a car with Oliver Mercier, an uncatchable trafficker of European scale she was after for years, a gun pointed at her, Rita was fighting a horrible headache. At least, she knew where the kid, Eric, was. Actually, right next to her, tied to the same gas pipe. He was sobbing endlessly, whenever he wasn't sleeping, and it had a calamitous consequence on her thinking process.

At first Oliver was hanging around, blabbering about their past ties and his sweet vengeance. _A bell rang deep down her brain, but it was so far away, one of the first memories she could guarantee being real._ And then even Oliver left, leaving them alone in a dark empty room with just a heater creaking from time to time and a feeble sunbeam making his way from the time-worn roof to the dusty floor. Eric wouldn't talk at all. Poor child. She started talking to him, choosing reassuring words, maybe trying to encourage herself as well.

But then all the crew showed up, dragging an unconscious man along. She almost cried, surprised by the thought it could be Sherlock Holmes. But it wasn't him. _Thank God. Wait, no! _It was another victim. And it was horrible. Oliver's idea of cruelty was perverse and sharpened by experience.

What's worse, they did it in front of a ten-years-old kid. And they took away the injured man, and spent hours drinking in front of their victims, laughing, just like normal people do, but they were not normal. They were torturing a child. At that point of time, Rita didn't even care about herself. Her natural instinct was to protect the boy. Maybe because her maternal instinct finally decided to come out, maybe because he seemed so desperate and so like her at this age. The rage blinded her for a moment; her nails furiously dug into the core of the ropes. A dash of blood dripped on her palm. _Useless. Those knots were too tight._

After what seemed like days but were mere hours, the men left them alone again. _Such a scary and yet comfortable silence._ She sunk into a troubled dream, where she was about to grasp something important but the thought vanished in the air. Some words flooded out her mouth: "It will be okay. He will come for us. You'll see." Who? Who should show up to save them? She tried to be more precise, but the only image she could get was Sherlock's grinning face. Somehow, knowing that he had her pocket-watch was reassuring. His whole presence was reassuring, as if she always knew him.

New pictures sprouted in her feverish mind: _a black-haired silver-eyed boy giving her a small device, stating in his usual arrogant manner "It's a really old stuff, do not ever lose it or I'll never talk to you again!" _When was it? He looked so young! And yet she was certain that he was her senior.

A door creaked and a light bulb crackled while turning on. It was Oliver. "Hello, you two. Had a nice sleep?" He barked an unpleasant laughter. "You should be happy, we're having guests. So I don't need you anymore, honey." His last words were addressed to the girl.

She couldn't suppress the anger of her voice: "What are you doing to the kid?"

"He'll be my shield." His eyes were crazy, absolutely crazy with hate and cruel joy. Eric wasn't reacting at all, probably in a deep shock since last night. "Gentlemen!" Two strong-arms entered the room. They quickly untied the boy and Oliver grabbed his collar. The poor child didn't make any attempt to resist. Rita struggled with rage, only to get her wrists hurt more. "I leave Victoria to you."

All three men smirked dangerously, as Oliver was walking out with Eric. But she didn't see anything anymore. The name he gave her was like a long-awaited thunder in the clouded sky. _Victoria. This name. Her name. How could she forget?!_


	13. Chapter 13 - Ambush First Step : Locate

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners; I'm just playing a bit with them. Really._

_Over 470 views from 25 countries, I'm so happy that people are reading this! Thank you soooo much guys! =)_

_I'm trying to spot my mistakes, but actually it's not that simple… Do not hesitate to point out some of them for me (are virtual cookies ok as a reward?)_

_Well, then…_

_Thank you for reading and enjoy! =)_

* * *

Chapter 13. Ambush – First step: Locate.

"Snipers took their positions." Greg just finished giving final orders on his walkie-talkie, and turned to Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was strangely pale, but holding his usual cold attitude. "Where is Dr Watson?"

"Here!" John joined them behind the police van, two bulletproof vests at hand. "Sherlock, you're putting this on."

"What? No, it will block my movements."

"And it will save your life. Put this on." Holmes mumbled something about useless things, but obeyed reluctantly. _It was pointless to oppose John right now._

While John was adjusting his vest, Greg took out his gun. "I don't like the idea of you two going there, but at least I'll be with you."

The chilly answer burst forth immediately: "Do you seriously think it will change a thing?" Lestrade fought the strong urge to punch the genius detective. Happily for this little smart-arse, Donovan arrived to check on them.

"Operation starts in two minutes. Are you ready?" she said inquisitively. Watson nodded affirmatively, but suddenly Lestrade seemed to remember something.

"Sherlock, are you going unarmed?"

"I'm a civilian, remember?" was the ironic reaction.

"Well, who knows what these people are scheming. Sally, give him a gun." As Sergeant was giving him an outraged look, he had to insist: "Now." Clearly annoyed, she ended up giving the weapon, which Sherlock took casually. His mind was already in the house standing two blocks to south. To keep the ambush secret as long as possible, they were forced to take some precautions. The trio of 'negotiators' would walk to the meeting place. "Let's go."

They took off, walking straight on the desert street. Holmes was almost running, but John's brief replicas contributed to slow him down a little. It was late in the morning, and there were very little curious onlookers. Most inhabitants were already at work.

Of course, Sherlock was the first to get to the gate. John was in his tow, and Greg followed them, cautiously watching over their surroundings. A single man was staying there, hidden from snipers' sight by the metallic gate. He turned to them with a shady smile on his craggy face: "You are waited. Follow me." _The building was three meters away from the gate. A time-worn two-floor house, a peeling dirty white paint on the façade, wooden boards blocking windows. Sherlock immediately spotted all the fire points, five in total. _Two other criminal looking men were waiting behind the front door.

The tension was almost unbearable. Lestrade felt goose bumps under his shirt when they entered the hall. He looked at John and Sherlock. Those two were surprisingly calm. Of course, Watson was a soldier and learnt how to cope with the feeling of danger, however he wouldn't expect the highly talented but completely deprived of self-control Consulting Detective to handle the pressure so nonchalantly, knowing that all this set-up was a long-run vengeance aimed at him.

They entered a wide empty room, firstly meant to be a dining-room. Their guide politely nodded and left. There was a lot of garbage on the ground. Windows were blinded, and in the middle of a lonely sunbeam was what they came for. Oliver Mercier, alias Sorrel, stood firmly with a disgusting grin on his aristocratic face, holding a little boy in front of him. The child's eyes were full of tears but awfully void. He wasn't aware of people around, neither of the gun held near his temple.

* * *

_A/N : Told you it's getting some action! I'll keep you posted very soon =)_


	14. Chapter 14 - Second Step : Confront

_**Disclaimer: **__all characters belong to their rightful owners. As usual._

_My special thanks to Valkyrie Of The Dead for following and favouriting! =)_

_A short chapter again… Now that I think about it, they've never been long. Sorry about that._

_Be my guest and review! Critics, feedback, anything!_

_Thank you for reading, and here we go…_

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Chapter 14. Ambush – Second step: Confront

"Hello... It's nice of you to have come, Holmes. And thank you for bringing friends. I LOVE big parties!" The laughter sounded absolutely crazy. Despite John's forebodings, Sherlock didn't react to the provocation. He was analyzing the room. _A wide space. No furniture, only some litter. Two doors – they used the one facing north, the second one was exactly at Oliver's left. It was a prepared stage for their drama._ He heard a distant fall noise upstairs but didn't attach importance to it.

Suddenly focusing his attention at his opponent, Sherlock realized that this man was drugged. That wasn't necessarily a good thing; this kind of criminals would always do something stupid and unpredictable. "So tell me… What was that for, Oliver?"

The man winked: "Don't you know?"

"I'd like to hear your point." Lestrade discretely slipped his hand in his pocket. A single pressure on his phone and the order to assault the building would be sent to Donovan.

Oliver talked in a superior manner, full of his own power: "So you don't get it, do you?" John saw Sherlock holding his breath, fists clenched. Even if his friend was stoically hiding it, the anger was about to burst out. Very slowly, carefully, Watson made two steps to stand just near the younger man. "I wanted, no, I had to prove that I'm the best. Better than you, and especially better than Mycroft. See? I did it. You can't stop me. No one can!"

"What have you done to the girl?"

* * *

She came down stairs half-broken. Her body hurt, but her mind grew clearer. She managed to knock out the idiots who were supposed to kill her. _Her fighting lessons fully paid off, but it still hurt._ There was a dark corridor on the ground floor. Some voices reached her ears. _Got to hurry._

An opened door. Oliver holding the boy, right ahead, only three meters from her. He didn't notice the trembling shadow on his left. Then she realized there was someone else in the room. _This voice! This deep, angered baritone..._ Images were emerging and flying chaotically inside her head, memories of the accident and of the happy days prior to it. She listened to Oliver's little speech with growing rage.


	15. Chapter 15 - Third step : Save the Kid

_**Disclaimer: **__do I really need to make a disclaimer anymore?.._

_Thanks to Benfan for reviewing! (although you're not at this chapter yet)_

_Sorry for the delay, I was down with a cold, dreadful business... This one is a bit longer, and a bit angsty (not for long, though)._

_Your opinion would be a great help!_

_Enjoy =)_

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Chapter 15. Ambush – Third step : Save the kid

"You Holmes siblings have always been so annoying… Your bratty sister saw me taking Mycroft's notes. She came to get them back, to steal them! I just had to teach her some manners, right?" At the mention of sister, Lestrade couldn't hold back a surprised gasp. That was something those two never mentioned. By the look of Sherlock's clenched fists and blood rushing to his high cheekbones, the story was true. Meanwhile, Oliver kept talking, savoring his victory: "It's such a pity Robert stopped me. He made me leave Britain, and he hid the brat. But you should have seen that! It was so exciting when it turned out she lost her memories; I still remember her asking me '_Say, who is Sherlock?.._', funny, isn't it?"

Sherlock grumbled, about to jump on his enemy, but John strongly grabbed his forearm and whispered: "Do not let him get you." Seeing that the Consulting Detective had difficulty to regain composure, he resumed the conversation as impassively as he could: "Where is she now?"

Oliver's reaction to this simple question surprised them all: "What time is it?"

Hesitant, Lestrade spoke out: "Past noon, I guess." Sorrel smirked.

"Then she must be already dead." At those words, all colors left Sherlock's face. John, who was still grabbing his arm, felt the violent shiver that shook his friend. He was also shocked, but his feelings surely couldn't compare with Sherlock's. In an awkward attempt to support his friend, John tightened his grip. Greg saw Holmes' reaction too. He quickly grasped the situation, but held the order to assault. There was still a chance to get the child out of here peacefully.

* * *

Oliver drooled in pleasure of making such an impression. She saw his eyes burning with madness at the announcement of her death. But then she saw him taking a step backward and broke out in cold sweat. He was about to...

* * *

"And so is this kid." It was too late to stop him, even if Watson already pulled out his gun and Lestrade sent the assault order, Oliver was about to shoot the little hostage.

A tiny shadow burst out the second door. Before they knew it, the child was pushed out the bullet's path just in time. The bullet stuck into the wooden floor. The deafening second after the gunshot seemed eternal. They all stared in amazement at the shivering feminine figure who was hugging the boy. Eric started to cry out loud, and it sort of woke them up. "Victoria!" Sherlock yelled and tried to run over there, but once again John restrained him. Oliver didn't let go of his weapon yet, and it would be alarmingly stupid to provoke him at this distance. Any abrupt actions could worsen the situation. For once Dr Watson was the one in control. Holmes was just too overwhelmed to keep his head cool (and that's was a first, but John didn't have time to think it over). Now they were both, Watson and Lestrade, holding the felon at gunpoint.

Oliver recovered from his surprise rather quickly and hurried to point the gun at the woman: "Bad timing as always, Victoria…"

She raised the head to face him. Hugging tightly the sobbing boy, her hands softly caressing his back, her swollen face was filled with anger and calm determination. Her voice was clear and strong: "Don't be ridiculous."

* * *

_A/N: So, what do you think? Did I go overbroad with Sherlock's reaction? I figured he'd be confused and terrified as well, and would act in an unusual way, since his sister meant a lot to him. Not that John means less to him now that Victoria's back, mind you! =)_


	16. Chapter 16 - Act on Impulse

_**Disclaimer: **__usual stuff._

_My heartfelt gratitude to Benfan for reviewing, and following, and supporting me, thanks to you I feel a little more motivated to update this more quickly, and to improve my writing (I'm not really succeeding in this, but I'm trying ^^), and your stories are just awesome!_

_So, sorry for keeping you waiting for so long, real life is unfair…_

_Critic, advices, feedback are more than welcome =)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 16. Act on impulse

_Don't be ridiculous._

She saw that he understood. She was baldly provoking him with those words, those exact words she said fifteen years ago to the foolish teen Oliver was back then. The mad rage wrinkled his face. She just closed her eyes and silently prayed during the seconds before gunshots smashed the silence. A loud noise of a falling body, then gunshots and cries outside. She didn't dare to look up, nor open her eyes. Small hands were clinging to her, and her only thought right now was to get out of this nightmare at last.

* * *

Oliver didn't have the time to pull the trigger. They'll know whose bullet killed him after the autopsy. It was not the priority right now. Sherlock rushed to his sister, and simultaneously they could hear the beginning of the assault. The size of the criminal group was unknown, so Lestrade had decided to resort to drastic measures. While Holmes was standing near hostages, unsure of what he should do first and Watson was making sure Oliver was dead for good, Detective Inspector checked the corridor which led to the staircase. The place was deserted. All gunmen were probably keeping the front-door. Suddenly, he heard gunshots behind his back. He ran back to the dining-room cursing himself for such a careless mistake.

* * *

"John…" Sherlock almost begged his friend. "What's wrong with her?" Dr Watson diverted his attention from the corpse and stood up. Victoria was standing still, eyes closed, trembling, holding tight the crying child against her chest. Her tangled hair covered a part of her face, but marks of beatings and tears could be seen clearly. The boy pressed his pale face against her chest and breathed heavily. Holmes flailed around, not daring to touch these two. _He didn't even know what to do or what to say. Stupid. Childish. This childish sentiment of fear and relief. How does he deal with it?! _Confused, he looked up to John.

The army doctor was calmly examining the girl without touching her either. "Deep shock" was his conclusion. "She would need a trigger to snap out of it…"

"What kind of trigger?"

Unfortunately, he couldn't answer. A completely panicked thug burst into the room, stumbling and almost falling. For a second, they were looking at each other. At the moment, Sherlock retrieved his cool. He immediately noticed the wound on the right hand, a bloody cut on the cheek and a gun in the left hand. _Right-handed. A stray bullet grazed him, he wasn't prepared, panicked, fled._ The man's eyes got wider when he saw his boss's corpse, and Holmes instinctively pulled out his own weapon.

"Look out!" John shouted, pushing Victoria and the kid to the ground, while Sherlock threw himself in front of them, perfectly conscious of his bullet-proof jacket not being properly worn, silently apologizing to John in case all this mess ended very badly, and asking himself skeptically why the hell was he doing this. _Oh well, it has always been like this since they were kids. He would always do stupid, irrational things when Vick was involved. He would not allow anybody, not even Mycroft to hurt her. He was the only one who had this right, because he was the only one who didn't really mean to be hurtful. And the day she was gone, suddenly sentiments stopped to matter and emotions got dull. Until he met John, but that's…_

He felt pain blossom across his chest, the impact force throwing him backward. His finger slowly, almost gently pulled the trigger while he was falling. Another gunshot fired from the second door. _Lestrade. _A pained grunt and coughs from the thug's position. _Must have been touched. _The sore feeling of hitting the floor._ Not good._

"Sherlock!"

* * *

_A/N Aaand… that's it for today. Yeah, I love cliff-hangers. Sorry =)_


	17. Chapter 17 - End of the Ambush

_Hello everyone!_

_Sorry for going missing for so long, and leaving you with a cliffhanger, blame the uni and its midterm exams (yeah, already there...) and the real life in general. So there are two chapters at once, kindly beta-ed by Benfan (thaaaaaank you again!) :)_

_Critics, feedback, advices, are very welcome, as ever!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 17. End of the ambush

_Not good. Not good._

"Sherlock!"

John was calling him. He stared at the ceiling, analyzing his body signals. _His chest hurt, but there were neither sharp pain, nor chills spreading, nor blurry vision, nor lack of oxygen. Actually, it was not so bad._

"I'm alright, John."

"I know you are, idiot." Obviously. "So please, don't pretend being dead. Lestrade doubts you're going to make it." Sherlock brusquely sat up, and incidentally noticed John's relieved expression.

"That'd be too dull!"

Greg looked at Sherlock with worry. But there seemed to be no harm done. He sighed with apparent relief: "Thank God John made you put this vest on…" Sherlock felt like saying something sarcastic but stopped himself since the realization dawned that John's foresight had undeniably saved his life.

Meanwhile, the assault squad showed up. They quickly took the building under control. Donovan entered the room to report. She ended up astonished and somewhat embarrassed by what she saw: Holmes sitting on a heap of old papers with a grimace of pain on his pale face, John taking off his friend's bulletproof vest, and her boss trying to get someone up in the darkest corner of the room. Plus, a dead man was lying down in the way.

"What happened here?!"

"A shooting, Sally." Sherlock grumbled while taking his shirt off a little bit abruptly, and John lectured him right away:

"Stay still!" The Great Detective had an impressive bruise on his chest but not a single scratch. John whistled: "You are incredibly lucky, Sherlock."

Of course he had to contradict: "No, it was pure physics."

Donovan shrugged and went to Lestrade. "Chief, we cleared the house. There were two men unconscious upstairs; we took them into custody."

"Good work, guys." Although the Detective Inspector spoke proudly, he was still anxiously facing the persons lying in front of him. "John, come over here!"

Dr Watson rushed up to them and kneeled down. The woman Scotland Yard still knew as Rita Sorrel was curled up on the floor, hugging the unconscious boy. "Right. I'll try to wake them up."

Seeing she could not be of any help here, Sally withdrew: "I'll call for medics."


	18. Chapter 18 - Eric Mercier

_And here goes the second chapter of today's update! I'll try to not disappear again (may my midterm results be good enough for that...)_

_As always, reviews are like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day!_

_Hope you enjoy the story so far :)_

* * *

Chapter 18. Eric Mercier

John tried to move Victoria's arm from the boy's shoulder; but the moment his hand reached her, she opened her piercing grey eyes wide and stared intensely at her surroundings. Her body was tense and there was no doubt that she would attack any source of danger detected. The doctor needed to get through her defensive state. "Rita…" He had to start again: "Victoria. You're safe. It's all over. Look at me." Her gaze looked a bit more self-aware. She stared at John's face, and her eyes sparkled with tired joy.

Suddenly aware of holding a kid in her embrace, she sat up awkwardly. _Probably bruised ribs_, John observed while focusing on the poor boy. Victoria stayed silent and just stared at him with hope and apprehension. Apparently, she was barely holding back up her tears, and couldn't see anyone else but her little protégé anymore. The boy presented no external injuries. At least, those thugs hadn't dared beating a kid; however he looked extremely skinny and exhausted.

John gently patted Eric's cheeks. The boy opened his sleepy and frightened eyes, desperately trying to grasp the situation. When he saw an unknown man leaning over him, he wailed in terror; but then Victoria darted towards him. "Eric!" She displayed a tired-looking smile and reached out to him. The child threw himself into her arms, crying out loud. Everyone present in the room observed them with compassion while the young woman whispered comforting words in French.

Eventually, Eric seemed to calm down. He separated himself from the warm embrace and turned to Lestrade with a somewhat leery expression. "He needs to be taken to the hospital." Victoria's voice was unsteady, yet convincing. She remained kneeling, hands lifelessly lying on her knees. After getting Watson's silent assent, Lestrade took Eric's hand and led him out of the house.

Gradually, Victoria's eyes were becoming dangerously void. Alarmed, John talked to her in a soft voice: "Victoria. Do you hear me?" He brushed against her shoulder. No reaction. He grew seriously worried.

* * *

In her mind, thoughts and memories were tangling together. She didn't know what to do anymore. _Stupid, stupid, how stupid could she have been!_ What would happen now? _It was scary. Losing people was scary. Being at fault was scary. Please, God, let me apologize!_

* * *

_A/N About the apologizing part... You'll see in the next chapter (if everything goes according to the plan) what Victoria means by that, but basically it's a real mess in her mind and she feels guilty about her disappearance and memory loss, and... Well, she'll explain it next time ;)_


	19. Chapter 19 - I Missed You

_Hellow! So here's the new chapter, and first of all my thanks to Benfan (I really can't thank you enough) for reviewing, and more importantly beta-ing :)_

_And thank you, captaincatbones, for following and favoriting, it means a lot to me :)_

_So... Well, there are very few chapters left, and I'm still not sure if you people like it or if my updates are just an annoying little entry among all those awesome fanfics which are posted everyday. Penny for a piece of your mind? Pretty please? ^^_

_Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this one!_

* * *

Chapter 19. I missed you

John turned to Sherlock, who had remained motionless all this time. Once again he couldn't read any emotion in those grey eyes, but this time he knew perfectly well that this was a deceptive impression. "Sherlock."

Holmes removed his gaze from his sister's swollen face to look at his friend properly. Good sign. John caught his friend's eyes before talking again. "You have to talk to her."

"What? Why?" Now he was panicking. The usually sarcastic and arrogant man was panicking because he honestly didn't know how to express his feelings and what was more, how to help another person deal with her feelings. John gave Sherlock an encouraging smile, as usual intuitively sensing the genius's difficulties to cope with emotions.

"She needs YOU right now." And he stood up to give his friend some room to maneuver. Still hesitant, Sherlock kneeled down. He was shocked at the empty look in the woman's eyes. He couldn't refrain from taking note of her grey eyes being very similar to his own. _It was definitely her. She changed, became an adult, and he felt stupidly proud of this. However she still looked like a teen. Had always looked younger than her age. And why did she dye her hair?_

Although _once again_ he would never admit it, Sherlock was afraid of the vacant look on her face. He forced himself to call out: "Vick…" Her lips moved in a silent mumble. _Was it good?_ He looked up to John, who just frowned and nodded. Suddenly filled with cold determination, Holmes took her hand. Startled, she finally turned her head to face him. Her eyebrows were raised in a pitiful plead, and her voice was so feeble he barely heard it:

"Sherlock." _Well, at least she woke up from her daydreaming, but what is he supposed to do now? _He would have liked to take a glimpse at John, just to be sure; but strangely enough he couldn't take his eyes off her face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" she implored him.

That was quite a surprise. "Why?!"

She shook his hand off and clenched her fists. Her speech was confused. "I was stupid, really stupid… I should have realized sooner that… that it was… wrong. But it was so _blurry_ in my head… Those memories, it could have been just a dream, you know? A simple dream." She stroked her hair, and then hid her face in her hands. "So I just waited, and waited, _and waited _for someone to come and tell me the truth, and no one ever came, and I gave up on this part of me." Her arms fell down, and tears dripped on the dusty floor. "You must have suffered because of my stupid behavior… I'm sorry, so sorry… You must hate me now." It looked as if she struggled to avoid her brother's insistent stare, apparently unwilling to find out whether her assumption has been right.

Properly astonished by such an irrational interpretation of the events, yet aware that the shock-talking shouldn't be taken seriously, Sherlock was feverishly thinking about something to settle the situation. One day Mrs. Hudson told him that sentiments wouldn't kill him and that sometimes it'd be better for everyone if he just genuinely expressed his feelings. _Maybe that was the right moment to give it a try._ He delved in his pockets, not taking his eyes off of Victoria's grieving face.

He finally found the item he was looking for and firmly took his sister's hand. She glanced at him, uncertain of what would happen next. "I've never hated you." He said this with his deep charming baritone. As she was still hesitating, he faintly smiled and put a pocket watch in her small hand. "Sorry for being late."

Feeling his mouth become dry, he observed Victoria. She slowly, cautiously pressed the old pocket watch against her heart. The eyelids were tightly closed, yet her voice became more assured. "_You _were the one who gave it to me. How did I manage not to lose it?.." She took the device to her lips and smiled cheerfully.

Only then did Sherlock fully understand how nervous he was. A heavy weight was taken from his shoulders. The sentimental part was over; he didn't have to deal with those confusing feelings of pain and joy anymore. _Very good._

"Can you stand up?" he asked with his wonted, matter-of-fact intonation.

"I think so."

She stood up by herself, still not without a quiet pained moan. He felt a touch of worry. _Interesting. As far as he remembered, he used to experience this quite often when Vick was around. Did it mean this emotion would come back now? Was it a good thing?_

John saw her discomfort too, and hurried to offer his help. But she just shook her head.

Out of the blue, she blushed, looked down, then to the right. _What was that about? _Finally she looked into his eyes. Before he could say anything, Victoria gave him a long hug. "I missed you, Sherlock." First puzzled, he met Watson's amused gaze and gently responded to the hug. Obeying an unknown impulse, Sherlock Holmes whispered so only she could hear it: "I missed you too."

* * *

_A/N Aren't they sweet? :)_

_I hate leaving loose ends, so there will be some more, and I just **need** to bring Mycroft into this one more time (or two). Knowing that he properly tortures me whenever I try to write him, this might be quite a challenge..._

_See you soon (and please review ^^)_


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